


The Trap

by NohrianxScum



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 07:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohrianxScum/pseuds/NohrianxScum
Summary: A gift fic for Allie.





	The Trap

**Author's Note:**

> A gift fic for Allie.

The black-clad mourners trickled out of the graveyard, unaware that in their midst stood the greatest thief, the greatest murderer in the world. He stayed far behind, silver hair covering his eyes so that the grieving family wouldn't see the bottomless, insatiable greed in them.

He looked at the white marble tombstone. That grave, too, would become his. That grave, too, would host one of his fantasy selves that he strangled. That grave, too, would take part in the utter annihilation of who he was and who he thought he could become.

The model reaper.

The renegade.

The man standing on his own.

The man who could love.

The man who could be loved.

He was getting closer those days. He felt the edges of himself blur and crumble, leaving him to dissolve in the autumn wind, sweet with smoke and promises of rest. He had tried before, whatever before meant. In vain. He wasn't quite so thorough back then, didn't know better, didn't know how hard it was.

He was perpetual loss given form.

It wasn't beautiful.

Slender fingers pulled out a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a sloppily written address, date, and time. Undertaker ran one long black nail over the messy handwriting, rereading the note for the hundredth time since he received it. Could be a trap. _Should_ be a trap, if the young reaper had any common sense. Yet, something told him it was safe to accept the invitation, were he so inclined.

Undertaker slipped the note back into his pocket.

He still had selves to slaughter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The autumn wind was sweet with smoke and possibilities when Othello left the building. Out of habit, he waved at the security camera above the door before he stuck his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and walked away. He never managed to find out who was watching those cameras. Who was watching the reapers, who themselves were meant to be observers. Who could watch them day by day and remain absolutely impartial.

(The implications didn't frighten him in the daylight.)

It had been a long time since he last visited the human world for other than work-related reasons. The air in the human world carried a different taste - different, yet familiar in all the small, painful ways. Othello reached into his pocket for the metal tin with liquorice sweets. His fingers brushed a worn-out notepad he kept there in case of an interesting discovery. Only he knew that the last page was missing.  
He popped one of the black sweets into his smiling mouth. Oh, he was about to discover something interesting, all right.

Chances were that Undertaker wouldn't show up. What did he know about Othello? Nothing. It could be a trap. He _should_ expect a trap, if the older reaper had any common sense.

Othello quickened his pace, whistling.

He still had a mystery to solve.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Othello watched Undertaker's slender fingers with glossy black nails wrap around the handle of the dainty porcelain cup before he picked up his own cup and brought it to his lips. His face scrunched up when the steaming hot tea fogged up his glasses and burnt his tongue. The sorry show elicited a quiet chuckle from the man sitting across the table.

Othello set the drink down on the saucer, put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "How did you do it?"

Undertaker helped himself to a biscuit, but didn't bite into it straight away. Instead, he broke it into two halves and stuck one in his mouth, playing idly with the other. "Don't bore me. Why don't you ask me something more interesting?"

"I don't care _why_ you did it." Othello shrugged, secretly pleased at the flash of surprise that ran across Undertaker's features. _Not so unflappable now, huh?_ "Philosophy's never been my thing."

The other leaned forward slightly and his voice dropped into a whisper. "Maybe it's what I want to talk about."

Othello pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. He got the Undertaker to talk to him, why should he be picky about the kind of information he'd take away from the encounter?

"Tell me, then."

The legendary reaper broke the half of the biscuits into two more halves, adding more crumbs to the growing pile. "Too late."

"So what are you willing to tell me?" he asked.

"I don't know. What will _you_ tell me?" Undertaker reached over the table and stuck one piece of biscuit between Othello's lips. He nearly choked and a wave of heat rushed to his cheeks. "Will you tell me what's going through the head of a good little reaper that would make him want to associate himself with someone like me? What kind of knowledge is worth the risk? Are you thinking of repeating my experiment?"

The younger took a sip of his tea to wash down the sweet. Silence hung between them, tense and crackling with something he couldn't name.

"I haven't got any agenda," he replied truthfully.

Undertaker opened his mouth, then closed it again. He blinked. Then his face lit up with glee and he burst out laughing, laughing until tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes. "You mean it! Well, aren't you a delight, young man?"

Othello snatched up the remaining piece of biscuit from the other's fingers and popped it into his mouth with a grin. "See? I answered. Your turn."

"It might be best if I showed you instead. You can afford this answer." Undertaker paused, looking somewhere behind the younger's shoulder. "That's not quite true. It all depends on the point of view."

Then he stood up and held out his hand to his companion. Firefly eyes, hazy behind the glasses, fell down on it as Othello pondered what the hand would feel like in his. Old paper, perhaps. Chalk. He reached out but hesitated before their hands could touch.  
He glanced up. Their eyes met - Othello took the hand and gave it a firm squeeze. It was surprisingly soft and warm. Almost gentle.

It was definitely a trap.

Just not the kind either of them expected.

 

 

 

 


End file.
